Suddenly, after the penning of the city, you are high enough and close enough to a respectable-sized window to see the sky. It is a day of immense white clouds, thick, shaved-ice clouds, and what strikes you is not the largeness of each mound nor the blueness of the sky seen through the gaps where they don't quite overlap but the contrast between these clouds and the buildings in the foreground, pathetic, stagnant human constructs, concrete disguised by paint and prettied by glass like colored trinkets, perfect, unimaginative geometries, infection-like in their pathos. The sky, by contrast, drifts east to west as though making their way to some entertainment, dwarfing the city, unpredictable and patterened as though following a rule ungraspable for its subtlety. The clouds are nuanced, infinite, diverse. They are not just white, they are snow, eggshell, alabaster, dolphin. Skinless, they fill and watch over and are apathetic to those of us below. They hide in plain sight a revelation: they are God, reification or reality. In a natural life humans humans would never be able to recognize God for lack of contrast. And even while you mull over your discovery, the sky moves on on its interminable scrolling. A bird breaks through the edges of the clouds to become visible. It glides its flapless circle, reenters the cloud. You wonder, what must it feel like to fly through the divine?